


Support Systems

by keeptogethernow



Series: Support Systems [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alfred is so done, Bad Parenting, Brotherly Bonding, Bruce Has Issues, Child Death, Child Neglect, Dick is a good person, Emotional Constipation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Parent-Child Relationship, Sickfic, Tags Are Hard, Tim Drake is Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8249309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeptogethernow/pseuds/keeptogethernow
Summary: Bruce is still mourning, Dick just wants people to be nice and get along, Tim never stops trying, and Alfred tries to keep everyone alive and happy.





	1. Return and Recall

**Author's Note:**

> This is set about four months after Death in the Family. Dick's living and working in Bludhaven.

_Maybe I could just walk away now,_ Dick Grayson thinks, standing in the stairwell at the far side of the Batcave. _The only person who knows I’m here is Alfred, so…_ He sighs, because there’s no way out of this situation.

He hasn’t been back in the cave for a few months, not since that awkward, disastrous skirmish with Two-Face. And that had only been because of the strange little kid who’d shown up knowing _way too much_ about Batman and Robin…and Nightwing. Of course, Dick would never admit to actually being blackmailed by a freaking twelve-year-old, but somehow or other, he’d ended up back in Gotham, working with Bruce.

Well, _trying_ to work with Bruce. Which hadn’t gone well, and had ended with both of them getting their asses saved by said kid. Which led him back to his original point—he and Bruce weren’t friends, weren’t even talking right now, so there was no way this was a good idea.

But Alfred had asked him to come. He actually _called_ Dick up on the phone, and made it very clear that he expected Dick to show up. So here he is, in the cave, uniform in his duffle bag, just as he’d been ordered.

Nobody had been upstairs when he’d gotten there, so he’d just let himself in and then went down to the cave. So far, he still hadn’t found anyone, which was a little weird for Wayne Manor, but not alarmingly so. Dick sighs and really, _really_ wants to leave right now, _before_ anyone sees him, Alfred be damned. _Okay, not “Alfred be damned”, but maybe he’ll be okay with me just showing up, even if I don’t stay?_ Dick isn’t kidding himself though, so he just sucks it up and heads for the lockers to get changed.

He finds his first person in the locker room, almost trips over him, in fact. The kid, _Tim,_ he recalls now, is lying along the row of lockers, on the floor, totally asleep. He was behind the bench, which was how Dick had missed him until he’d almost stepped on him.

 _How the hell can_ anyone _sleep in that position,_ he thinks, staring at the scene with some confusion. _And_ why _is he sleeping on the floor?_

“Hey,” he tries, still wondering why anyone would sleep on a cement floor. “Hey, kid? Um, Tim?”

Nothing.

“Hey!” he says louder, and the boy jumps, wide awake.

He cracks his head on a locker door sitting up so fast, but doesn’t seem to register it. Dick winces, because, really, he hadn’t tried to freak the kid out or anything. _I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t bleeding out or something._

“Sorry,” the kid mumbles, blinking at Dick like he’s not sure if he’s seeing things correctly. “Um…sorry.”

He scrambles up before Dick can say anything, a little stiffly, but definitely not with any real struggle. _So…not hurt. Then why the hell—_

“Hey, um, Tim?”

The boy comes to a complete stop, looking up at Dick warily.

“Yeah?”

“Why were you sleeping on the floor?”

“Um…I think I just fell asleep.” Tim frowns a little, thinking about it. “Yeah, I fell asleep. I sat down to get my boots on,” he gestures to his shoes, which are still untied, Dick notes. “And I guess I just sort of nodded off. I, uh, didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Okay…” Dick drawls, because he can’t really think of anything to say to that.

Tim shrugs a little, then leaves the room, tripping a little over one of his trailing laces. Dick has to bite back a smile. _How do kids even manage that? I mean, Jason always…_

The thought takes the smile right off of his face. Jason—he’s like the elephant in the room. Dick is the first to admit that he wasn’t fair to the boy at all, especially at first. _I was such a jerk,_ he berates himself silently as he suits up.

 _So selfish and just…childish. God, he probably thought I_ hated _him. I mean,_ really hated _him. But we were getting better, right? I mean, we were getting along, I was around more…and it wasn’t fair! He was my brother, okay? Despite what everyone thought, even Bruce, I did love the kid. I just…couldn’t seem to stop acting like a dick long enough to make that clear._

Dick’s in a thoroughly somber mood by the time he gets dressed and heads out into the main space of the cave. There, he finds both Alfred and Bruce. Bruce’s back is to him, thank God, and Alfred sees him first.

“Ah, Master Richard, it is wonderful to see you again.” The old man says, walking over and patting Dick gently on the shoulder. “I trust the drive over was uneventful?”

“Yeah, it was. Good to see you too, Alfie.”

“Dick?” Bruce sounds confused. “What are you—I mean, why—“ He sighs in frustration. “It’s good to see you, but why are you here?”

Before Dick can answer, Alfred cuts in.

“Allow me to take your things, sir.” He almost _pulls_ the bag out of Dick’s hand. “Perhaps Master Richard could assist you with your latest case, Master Bruce?”

Bruce shrugs. “Sure, if he wants.”

Dick’s now thoroughly confused, but decides not to comment.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Wonderful!” Alfred says cheerfully, walking away. “Well, if that’s settled—Master Timothy, if you’re attempting to break a limb, that’s definitely the way to go about it.”

The boy looks a little sheepish, and stops whatever it was that he was doing—Dick can’t really tell what it was. He snickers a little, because it’s always funny when someone else is in trouble with the omniscient butler. Bruce sighs again and looks slightly exasperated.

“If you want something to do, you should practice the newest kata you learned. It was sloppy.”

Dick blinks, because he’s really not sure why Bruce is using such a stern tone over something so insignificant. _Maybe the kid’s a trouble-maker,_ he justifies, _why else would B snap like that?_ He frowns a little, but decides not to press it—he and Bruce are civil right now, and he doesn’t want to mess that up. So instead, he asks what the case is and gets to work.

The night passes relatively quickly—the case is an interesting one: a series of break-ins with zero evidence. Bruce hands over the files and notes, then focuses on whatever it is he’s doing on the computer. Tim uses the mats to practice various martial arts routines, occasionally stopping for a minute to grab a drink. He also offers a few suggestions regarding the case, mostly to Dick, as Bruce seems completely focused on whatever it is that he’s looking at. Dick reads through the papers, trying to get a feel for both the case _and_ for whatever the weird vibe in the cave is.

They leave for patrol around midnight, and the break is a relief. _God, it was so_ tense _in there,_ Dick reflects, standing on the edge of a roof, letting the breeze ruffle his hair. _And quiet._ Really _quiet. Like, Bruce said_ maybe _ten words the entire time. What the hell?_

He leaps off of the building, waiting for the last second before using his grapnel line to fly up to a higher rooftop. Batman and Robin are already there, and they both turn to look at him when he lands.

“Hi. So…we going, or…?”

Since no break has come up in the case, they settle on a normal patrol route and head out. It’s been a long time since Dick has patrolled in Gotham with Batman, but he falls back into the familiar rhythm quickly. He can tell the difference though, especially between Batman and Robin. There’s some sort of unfamiliarity there, as well as a distance that makes little sense.

He chalks it up to the fact that Tim’s still pretty inexperienced—the kid’s been Robin for less than four months, after all. But the more time he spends with the boy, the more confusing that theory gets. _He’s good,_ Dick admits, watching him take out a would-be mugger. That entire night, he’s been quick to react and responds well to any criticism that Batman or Nightwing offer. He seems able to alter his movements or adjust his angle based on sight and description alone.

 _It’s pretty impressive, really._ Dick watches as the boy adjusts his landing after a rougher one on the last roof. _There’s definitely potential there._

Aside from a couple muggings, the night has progressed fairly quietly. Dick’s not sure if he likes that or not. Bruce clearly doesn’t like it, because he decides to move ahead and see if there’s anything happening in the Narrows. He leaves Tim behind, telling him to listen to Dick. Dick’s not thrilled about that, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with this kid he barely knows. But then he sees somebody slip into a condemned building, looking incredibly shady.

“Hey, look at that.” He says, nudging Tim lightly. “Wanna check it out?”

“Sure.”

They land lightly on the building’s fire escape, and slip inside through an open window. It’s an abandoned office building, and the floor they’re on is full of mildewed cubicles and desks. _There’s no way to see if anyone’s there. This…was a bad idea…_

“Okay, I need you to wait here.” He orders Robin, hoping that this boy listens better than the last boy who’d worn the uniform. “Just…wait here for a minute.”

Robin nods, and he heads off between the cubicles. _No way I’m letting him wander around blind in here,_ Dick thinks, looking around warily. The space is quiet, but he can sense that there’s something off. He steps forward slowly, still trying to pin down what it is…and his foot goes _through_ the floor.

The entire rotted surface starts to give way, caving in beneath his feet. Dick lets out a startled yelp, and scrambles to find something to stop his fall.

“Nightwing? Are you okay?” Robin calls from the far side of the room.

“I could use some help.” Dick admits, because he’s holding onto a desk that is slowly starting to break apart under the strain. “ _Now.”_

A few seconds later, Tim comes into view. His eyes widen at the scene, but he seems to have a pretty good idea of what to do. He slowly starts to skirt around the growing hole towards Dick.

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Dick grunts, “Wow. …Why are you laying down?”

Tim looks at him from the floor. “Trying to spread my weight, so the floor doesn’t collapse any further.”

He stretches out a hand, and Dick grabs it gratefully. The boy starts to pull him back up, and Dick’s impressed that he doesn’t start to slide forward under the added weight. And then the floor drops out from under both of them. There’s not even enough time for either of them to cry out in surprise before they’re falling.

Dick manages to maneuver himself under Tim, breaking the slight boy’s fall. They hit the ground hard, and Dick is totally winded. He groans as Tim rolls off of him.

“Shit! Sorry.” The boy says, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”

Dick manages a thumbs up, still trying to get oxygen back into his burning lungs. Tim looks dubious, but doesn’t argue. He sits up and looks around, disoriented.

 _There’s something behind—_ “Look out!” Dick croaks, trying to move.

A gun shot breaks the silence, and Robin throws himself down, landing on his forearms. He uses the momentum to rolls himself to the side and back up to his feet. A man holding the smoking gun is visible now, and Robin lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the man’s stomach.

Dick finally gets himself up, and moves to help. He can see that there are at least two other men coming, and at least one is armed. Gasping for air still, he activates his comm.

“Hey, B? We could use some back up here.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just throws himself into the first guy. It quickly becomes obvious that they’ve interrupted something serious—more people keep charging in, many armed. And Dick soon runs into a man who can actually hold his own in hand-to-hand combat. Soon, he’s the one on the defensive, the man throwing blow after blow, and some of them are starting to land.

There’s a crashing sound, and he knows Batman has joined the fight. Within minutes, he’s fighting back-to-back with his former mentor. Now that there’s some space, Dick can see Robin on the other side of the room. He’s holding his own, thank God.

Finally, they’re down to three men, one for each vigilante. Dick’s focused solely on his own opponent, so a sudden shout of “Robin!” from Batman completely startles him, and he takes a glancing blow to his ribs.

Dick smoothly takes the man out, and then looks around wildly, trying to figure out what caused the outburst. He frowns, taking in the scene before him—Robin is getting up off of the ground, clearly struggling to breathe, while Batman is in the process of fully incapacitating the assailant.

“What happened?” he calls, heading over quickly.  Robin is red-faced and coughing too hard to answer, but Batman does.

“We’ll discuss it when we get back to the cave.” The man says darkly. “Finish restraining the assailants.”

They all work in silence, aside from the occasional hacking cough from Robin. He waves Dick off when he asks if everything is okay though. _I’m missing something, aren’t I?_

There’s a sense of doom as Dick rides back to the cave on his bike. The comms are off, so he has no idea what’s being said in the Batmobile. But he can recall plenty of conversations from his own time as Robin, so he can imagine quite easily what it must sound like.

He reaches the cave a few minutes after they do, and Tim’s already seated on the examination table, wearing a pair of faded sweatpants while Alfred examines his injuries. Bruce is doing something by the computer, cowl off, but the rest of the suit still on. Dick grimaces a little, because he recognizes the body language—Bruce is incredibly pissed.

“So what happened?” Dick asks, walking over to get himself an ice pack.

“Robin was careless.” Bruce says, not looking up. He does, however, look over at the boy to say “That was incredibly sloppy. You’ll be working on defense techniques for the remainder of the month, understood?”

Tim nods silently, swinging his legs idly as they dangle off the table, a good three or four inches from the floor. Dick raises an eyebrow, trying to place the expression on the boy’s face. _Resignation, maybe?_

“When you’re finished here, go home and get some rest.” Bruce tells the boy, walking past him towards the lockers.

There’s a quiet “Yes, sir.” Alfred sighs, a barely audible sound that Dick picks up mostly from experience. After a second, the butler steps back.

“Alright, young sir. I think you’re all patched up.” He declares, handing Tim a clean t-shirt. “You really _should_ get some sleep, Timothy.”

Tim nods and gives Alfred a tiny smile. “Thanks, Mr. Pennyworth.”

He hops down and starts walking towards the stairs.

“Hey!” Dick calls suddenly. “You did good tonight, kiddo. Don’t let him get to you, okay? Have a good night.”

“Thanks. Um, you too.” And then he’s gone.

Dick looks over at Alfred, totally confused now. “He doesn’t stay here?”

Alfred sighs. “Why don’t we take this conversation upstairs? I fear it’s rather a long story.”

Showered and dressed in record time, Dick jogs up the stairs and finds the butler in the kitchen, preparing them both something to drink.

“Okay, what’s up?” He asks the older man, settling himself at the kitchen table. “I mean, you called me up and told me to get over here, so there’s gotta be a reason.”

“Yes, well,” Alfred sighs as though angry. “I was hoping you would be able to help with this particular…problem.”

“You mean whatever’s up with Bruce and Tim?”

The butler nods. “Indeed. You surely noticed that there’s some tension?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, what’s up with him? He’s ten times as grim as usual, and he won’t stop snapping. Tim’s really not a bad kid, just a little inexperienced.”

“I fear that there may be some resentment toward the boy acting as Robin. Master Bruce seems quite set on driving the lad off.”

“That’s why he doesn’t just stay here?”

“Well…” Alfred hesitates. “I believe so. And for some reason, Timothy is just as disinterested in going home as Master Bruce is in sending him.”

“How so?”

“You see, the first week that he was allowed to patrol as Robin, the lad would return to the cave with Master Bruce, and then either aided with the filing and paperwork or went back to practicing whatever technique he’d been trying to master. He didn’t go home at all until it was time for school, and then he’d be back as soon as it let out.”

“Bruce was cool with that?”

“I doubt he even noticed. I put a stop to it after I found the boy passed out on one of the training mats. I’m sure you can imagine…”

Dick smiles, because he can imagine the scene. He’d been in the same position himself years ago and can recall the exact words Alfred had said to him then: “The equipment is hardly an appropriate place for sleeping, young master. In the future, I trust you will find a more acceptable place to rest.”

“Yeah, I can.” He says, still smiling. “So he started going home?”

“I had assumed so, until about a week later. Master Bruce caught the lad sleeping at the computer desk. He told the boy that such behavior was not to be tolerated, and that he was required to return to his own home and sleep if he needed rest.”

“Harsh.”

“Indeed. And since then, the earlier scene has been repeated nearly every evening.”

“Does he always look like he’s being sent to the firing squad?”

Alfred nods quietly.

“Hey, does Bruce ever, you know, compliment the kid’s work or just _smile_?”

“Not to my knowledge sir.”

“And you think I’ll be able to help how?”

“Well, Master Timothy is completely willing to take this behavior without a word of complaint. But, as I’m sure you know, that is hardly a good thing in this situation. Somebody needs to provide the lad with some sort of support. And he’s hardly been willing to open up to me, perhaps because of my age.”

“So you think he’ll talk to me, since I’m younger?”

“No. I think that you, Master Dick, are a good person and that you genuinely care about both Master Bruce and Timothy. And you are, by nature, friendly. Besides, the lad practically idolizes you, so any encouragement would be taken to heart…as would criticism.”

The last bit sounds a lot like a warning, and Dick wants to roll his eyes. But he doesn’t, because he knows that Alfred is right. Of course, he’s also realizing quickly what Alfred is asking and all that it entails.

“Okay, Alfie.” He sighs in defeat. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dick doesn’t actually try to do anything for almost a week. He stays in the Manor, but manages to almost avoid Bruce entirely, aside from patrol. He also observes the interactions between his mentor and the newest Robin, and he’s honestly a little disturbed by what he sees.

Bruce had taken Jason’s death very hard, that much Dick knew. Hell, he’d gone through a very dark period after his brother’s death himself. But Bruce still wasn’t over it, apparently, and he seemed to almost resent the boy who now wore the Robin uniform. He was never out right mean, per se, but he was cold and distant. The only time he commented on anything Tim did was to criticize it, and he never smiled. He also, on several occasions, had called the boy “Jason” without thinking, usually when he was distracted.

Dick doubted the man had even noticed, but he had, and he knew that Tim definitely had. And each time it happened, he noticed that the boy would start repeating the behavior, acting less like himself, and more like his predecessor. It was as though he thought that this might make Bruce less hostile, and the worst part was, in Dick’s opinion, that it seemed to work, to a degree.

He hadn’t intervened though. He _had_ tried to make sure he told the kid whenever he did a good job. Dick could tell that the boy was surprised each time, which seemed incredibly sad. This, of course, just galvanized him into doing it more often, because he sort of wanted to get him so used to the praise that he stopped making that wide eyed, confused expression each time. _It’s like he’s waiting for me to go “—But,” and then start in on the criticism._

He finally acts on Friday, because it’s raining. They have a miserable patrol, wet and cold, but nobody got hurt. And then they worked hard on the break-and-enter case, until around three that morning. Then, like clockwork, Bruce told Tim to head home.

Dick’s payed enough attention over the week to know that the boy _walks_ home each night. He frowns when the order is given, waiting for either Bruce to offer a ride or for Tim to protest walking in the downpour. But of course, nothing of the sort happens, and the boy heads up the stairs, the doomed expression on his face, as usual.

“Hey,” Dick calls, standing up and following Tim. “Wait up. I’ll give you a lift.”

Tim stares like he’s just sprouted a second head. “ _Why?”_

“Because it’s raining?”

“It’s not that far, and I’ve walked in the rain plenty of times, _remember_?”

Dick ignores both the total suspicion and the pointed reference to the fact that they somehow missed a _nine-year-old boy_ following them through Gotham each night.

“Then because I want to, okay? Just deal with it.”

“…fine.”

They take one of Bruce’s cars, and Dick finds out quickly that the kid is a major car fan. He doesn’t shut up about the vehicle until they get near the large summer estate he lives at.

“You can just drop me off here.” Tim says when they’re still at least half a mile away.

“Or I could just drop you off at the door.”

Tim slides down in his seat and doesn’t argue. An awkward silence falls over the car. Dick’s not even sure what he’s done, but he’s clearly done _something._ He pulls the car up as close to the front door as he can. The house is very dark, he notices. There are no lights on at all, actually.

“It’s kinda dark. You sure your folks are home?”

“Oh, I forgot to leave a light on,” Tim says, unfastening his seatbelt. “It’s cool.”

“ _You_ forgot a light? Are your parents, like, vampires or something?”

“Huh?”

“Can they see in the dark?”

“Oh,” Tim shrugs. “No. They’re in, um, Nicaragua, I think.”

Dick stares. “So you’re staying here _alone?”_

“Yeah? It’s cool. I mean, it’s not like it’s the first time. Normally, I leave the lights on though.”

“For real? Dude, does Bruce know?”

“Um…that they’re gone? I think so.”

“Does _Alfred?”_ Dick’s incredulous now. “I mean, how long have they even been gone?”

“A few months.” Tim shrugs. “Why would Mr. Pennyworth care?”

“ _Tim.”_ Dick shakes his head, totally dumbfounded. “That’s not…it’s not…dude, you’re, like, _twelve._ You can’t stay home alone for _months.”_

“Why? I take care of myself just fine, you know. Have since I was five. And I’m not _totally_ alone. Mrs. Mac comes by once every two weeks to clean up and check on me.” He opens the door and climbs out. “Thanks for the ride. ‘Night.”

And then he’s gone, before Dick can even begin to think of anything else to say. He watches the small boy unlock the front door and go inside. He can’t even fathom how Bruce could just ignore the fact that a twelve-year-old is living alone, especially one he works with closely. _Alfred_ can’t possibly _know. He’d never let Tim stay there if he did._

As soon as he’s back, he goes to the cave and finds both Bruce and Alfred discussing something.

“Did you know,” he says, totally interrupting. “Did you know that Tim has been staying at that house by himself this whole time? _Alone?_ ”

Both men stare at him, and Dick wonders if this is going to become a theme.

“Yes…” Bruce answer slowly, still staring. “I was aware.”

“And you just… _let him?”_

“It hardly seems like my choice, Dick. The boy has parents, that’s their decision. And it’s not as though he’s a child anymore.”

Dick can feel his jaw drop. Finally, he sputters out “Are you for real right now? He’s _twelve.”_

“There’s nothing I can do about it!” Bruce snaps. “I’m _not_ his father, Dick.”

 _And there it is. That’s the real thing here—he’s_ not Jason. _You don’t even want him here. You seem convinced that he’s somehow trying to replace Jason, so you refuse to even look at him as a child._

Too furious to continue the conversation, Dick throws his hands up and storms upstairs. He wants to just yell and shake Bruce until he stops being cruel. _You cannot just…_ use _a kid this way. He’s not expendable._ But there’s no way to make that work, and he can tell that Alfred is already going to lay into Bruce.

Besides, if they fight, he’ll need to leave. And then Tim would still be here, Bruce would still behave like an asshole, and nobody would be around to try and repair the damage he caused every night.

 _What are his parents like,_ Dick suddenly wonders. _Who just_ leaves their kid _like that? He’s been doing this since he was five? Who leaves a kid that young alone?_

 _It makes sense though,_ he realizes grimly once he’s in bed. _It makes sense that he’d be surprised that anyone would praise him—his parents aren’t even home. That’s gotta do something to a kid. No wonder he doesn’t argue when Bruce chews him out—he’s used to people disregarding and ignoring him. And I wouldn’t want to go home either, if I knew that no one would be there._

Dick stops trying to think about it after that. He’s already so angry that he can’t relax, and part of him wants to just storm over to the house and drag Tim back to the Manor, where there are people who care— _well, some of them do._ He just can’t imagine what kind of person would leave a child alone for more than a day, let alone _months._ His parents were always present, and after them, Bruce and Alfred were there to take care of him, to comfort him after the nightmares, always there to greet him after school.

But…he can still hear Bruce’s words: _“I’m not his father, Dick.”_ And that bothers him. Bruce is his dad, despite all their fights and anger, and it hurts him to think that the man who used to sit up and read to him after a bad nightmare would willingly and knowingly send any child back to an empty house, alone.

The next day is tense and awkward. Tim seems convinced that Dick’s going to be mad at him for some reason, so he’s either ignored Dick or outright avoided him. Bruce is clearly both angry at Dick and himself, and seems content to just brood and snap at anyone who does anything wrong. And Alfred seems sad and tired.

Even the patrol is awkward. Dick’s relieved that Tim warmed up to him a little, although he’s still very reserved. Bruce only speaks to give orders. When it’s all over, Dick is more than ready to leave for Bludhaven and go back to work.

He’s not sure if he should say anything to Tim before he goes. He definitely isn’t going to say anything to Bruce, beyond a “Bye, B.” Of course, Alfred seems to read his mind.

“I do hope you have a good drive back, sir.” The old man says, handing Dick his bag. “Please inform me when you arrive, to ease my mind.”

“Will do.” Dick smiles fondly. “I’ll text you. Hey, you’ll, um…you’ll let me know if things around here get…?”

“Of course.”

Dick grins and gives Alfred a quick hug, before heading for the door. He’s a little surprised to find Tim sitting on the steps out front.

“I thought you were going home?”

Tim jumps, then looks embarrassed. “I’m going to. I just…” he shrugs.

“Want a lift? You have to wear a helmet, but we can take the bike.”

“Yeah!”

It’s not a long drive, but Tim seems to enjoy the whole thing thoroughly. Dick can’t help but laugh as the kid throws his hands in the air and whoops. The entire thing is incredibly relaxing in a way. Of course, the feeling fades as they pull up to the silent, empty house.

“Okay, last stop.” Dick announces, trying to sound cheerful. “Get off.”

Tim does, and hands back the helmet. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. So…” he rubs the back of his neck. “I’m gonna head back to Bludhaven today.”

“Alfred told me.”

“Look, you know you can call me if you need anything right?”

“Um…”

“You _can._ And if you don’t, you can tell Alfred, and he’ll tell me, okay?”

“Okay…”

Dick grins. “Cool. I’ll see you later, kiddo.” He leans forward and ruffles the boy’s hair. “Hang in there.”


	2. It's JUST a Cold, Okay?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick finally gets a lot of Bruce's behavior back when he was a kid. Tim keeps using "I'm not a baby" as an argument, which is really not convincing to anyone. Alfred is going to lay down the law, because this is ridiculous!

He doesn’t come back up to Gotham for nearly a month. Of course, he’d planned to, but things just kept coming up. And then Alfred called him again. Apparently, he was concerned, because Tim hadn’t been by in almost a week. He’d had a cold, Alfred said, and, after some deliberation, he’d told the boy to go home and get well.

That had been a week ago though, hence the phone call. Dick wasn’t sure if there was a reason that Alfred didn’t just go over and check on the kid himself, but he’s not stupid enough to say so. Instead, he just promised to come over as soon as he could (which is Saturday).

On Saturday, he finds himself standing very self-consciously in front of the Drake home. _It still looks empty._ He shudders a little as his mind conjures up all sorts of horror movie scenarios set in creepy houses just like this. _Only it’s not a creepy, abandoned house,_ he reminds himself firmly. _It’s just a house, and people do live in it._

It takes ten minutes of repeated knocking before Dick gives up on waiting for somebody to answer the door. He assumes that Tim, at least, must be home, so he just assumes that the door cannot be heard from far part of the house. _Maybe there’s a back door?_

There _is,_ in fact, a back door, well hidden from the front and sides of the place. When he jiggles the knob, it opens with no resistance. Dick frowns a little at that—it’s a major security oversight. But it works in his favor at the moment, so he enters and shuts the door softly.

“Hey! Anyone home?” he calls out. “Tim?”

He can hear something clanging in the kitchen, and figures that’s probably his best bet to find somebody. So that’s the direction he heads, and as he gets closer, he can hear somebody coughing—probably Tim, which is reassuring.

It takes Dick a little longer than it probably should to find the right room, but eventually he enters the kitchen. It’s a fairly average affair, with an island counter and stainless steel appliances. There’s a pot of something boiling on the stove top, and Dick can see Tim attempting to get something from one of the top shelves.

The boy has clearly given up by this point, and hops off the counter to get the pot. He grabs the handle and lifts it, still boiling, clearly intending to take it to the sink or counter. And Dick can see exactly what’s going to happen…and everything seems to go into slow motion for a second.

Tim gets the pot about half off the stove when he starts coughing. He’s clearly trying to suppress it, but the coughs keep coming, shaking his small frame. Still coughing, he attempts to put the pot back onto the stove top, but he’s coughing too hard to actually control it. And of course, the water is sloshing over the sides already…

Dick snaps into motion then (finally), because he can literally see the disaster in motion. So he darts forward, grabs the boy around the waist, and practically _flings_ both of them backwards, just as the pot tips over and boiling water cascades down onto the floor where Tim had been standing. They both stare at the mess in shock for a second. Dick’s still holding onto the kid, who’s entirely out of it and barely seems to notice the fact that he’s a good inch off of the ground. They’re both breathing hard, Dick from the adrenaline, and Tim because he’s still hacking up a lung.

Glancing down, Dick can see that Tim’s hands are turning a bright red from the boiling water. He grimaces, and hauls the kid over to the sink, setting him down, turning the water on, and shoving the dazed boy’s hands into the stream. Tim winces and tries to pull his hands back out of the frigid water.

“Dammit, Tim! Leave them under that.” Dick snaps, finally starting to regain his focus. “They’re burned, okay?”

“’s _cold.”_ Tim whines, before breaking into another, shorter coughing fit.

“It’s _supposed_ to be cold. What the hell were you even doing?”

“I wanted soup.”

Dick decides to not respond, because it’s clearly turning into less of a conversation and more of a lecture. _And I want to just sort of wring your neck, so…_ He snags a clean-looking towel, turns the water off, and gently wraps Tim’s hands in it. They’re already starting to blister, he notes, feeling both sympathetic and surprisingly pissed off.

“Where’s the—“

“First aid kit’s in the cabinet over the sink.” Tim nods in that direction. “I…it might not have anything in it though. Pretty sure it needs to be restocked.”

The first aid kit does, in fact, need to be replenished. Inside, Dick finds two small Band-Aids, an almost empty tube of antibiotic ointment, an empty bottle for hydrogen peroxide, and a half-full bottle of Aspirin. He shoots Tim a sour look, and the boy shrugs.

“Sorry.” And after a beat, “I think there’s some gauze wrap in my room.”

Dick nods, thinking how much he’d like to strangle any of the adults responsible for this kid right now. Although, honestly, he should probably be on that list.

“I…have no idea where your room is.” He says instead.

“Oh, right. I can show you. Um…” Tim tries to stand up, and nearly falls back over when the motion makes him dizzy.

Dick grabs the boy’s shoulder and shoves him back onto the chair. “Just tell me where to go.”

The room is sort of a mess—blankets heaped on the bed, clothing sitting in a pile in one corner. The desk, which is where Tim said the bandages were, is practically buried under papers, tissues, and a lot of circuit boards and wires. It’s surprisingly chilly in the room too, which Dick finds a little weird, but maybe Tim’s one of those strange people who likes the cold when they’re sick.

Finally, he locates the bandages and goes back downstairs. Tim’s still sitting on the chair, which is possibly more because he’s too tired to try and be stupid than because he’s being careful. Dick gets the kid’s hands wrapped quickly, biting back a lot of not-so-nice comments.

“Done.” He announces, leaning back against the counter. “You still want soup?”

“Yeah.” Tim croaks. He’s still been coughing on and off, and looks totally wiped out. “Um…”

“I got it. I’m not Alfred, but I _am_ capable of cooking, to a degree.” Dick chatters, opening a can of soup and turning the stove back on. “I mean, I _do_ live alone, you know.”

He makes enough for both of them, because it gives him an excuse to hang around without looking like a creep. And it also gives him time to decide exactly what he should do—Alfred will _kill_ him if he doesn’t do something, but he’s not entirely sure what that something is. He’s only known Tim for a couple months, only spent any real amount of time with him for, like, a _week_.

Frowning a little, he glances at the kid, who’s totally focused on the food. His hands are shaking, Dick notes, and suddenly, he’s wondering just how long Tim’s been alone here.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asks, after the shaking causes Tim to drop the spoon.

“I dunno.” Tim frowns, glaring at the spoon like it’s somehow responsible. “Few days?”

Dick doesn’t have a response, and they sit in silence until the soup is gone. Tim looks half-asleep, barely noticing when Dick takes his bowl and puts the dishes in the sink. He does, however, notice when Dick presses the back of his hand against Tim’s forehead.

“What’re you doing?” He jerks his head away, nearly overbalancing.

“You’ve got a fever.” Dick replies, frowning a little. “Dude, you’re, like, on fire here. When did you last take something for that?”

Tim stares like this is possibly the weirdest conversation he’s ever had, which is an answer in itself. When Dick shoves a cup of water and two Aspirin into his hand, he takes it without protest.

“When are your parents getting back?” Dick asks, more in formality than because he thinks this will get him out of this mess.

“Dunno.”

“Who’s watching you then?” Because he cannot honestly believe that _anybody_ would willingly leave their twelve-year-old kid home alone for months, _especially_ when that kid is sick.

“No one? I’m not a baby.” Tim looks slightly offended. “The housekeeper stops by every two weeks though. But, um…I think she’s visiting family or something?”

 _Great_. Dick sighs and runs a hand through his hair. If he drags Tim back to the Manor, Bruce will be _so_ pissed, mostly because he was left out of the decision making. If he leaves well enough alone, Alfred will be pissed, and Dick’ll probably never be allowed back inside Wayne Manor.

“Come on,” he says, finally making a decision. “You’re going to bed now.”

Tim stares, but does as he’s told. It takes nearly five minutes to get out to the large foyer, because he’s incredibly slow and wobbly. The pace is starting to bother Dick.

“Where the hell have you been sleeping?” He demands, because there’s no way Tim’s been going up and down these stairs for the past week.

“Uh…the, um…sitting room.”

“You wanna sleep there?”

“Not really.”

 “Okay.”

Since he was already debating the idea before Tim made a decision, Dick decides in favor of just picking the kid up. He was expecting some serious resistance, but the kid just sort of goes boneless. Tim weighs alarmingly little, so the deadweight doesn’t actually faze Dick. He just shifts the kid so he’s not gonna smack his head on anything on the way up the stairs.

Tim’s totally asleep by the time they make it upstairs. Dick gets the boy into bed, checking his temperature on the way. He’s definitely still feverish, but it _feels_ like it’s gone down a little. He steals one of the blankets off the bed and settles into a bean bag chair Tim has buried under the clothes. It’ll be a long night.

Somehow, in spite of the uncomfortable chair (whoever designed these things clearly meant to cripple the user), Dick manages to fall asleep. He’s not sure what woke him up at first, but then he hears a small, barely audible whimper from the bed. He hauls himself up and over to check on Tim.

The boy is still fast asleep, face tense and flushed (probably from the fever). His eyes flicker behind closed lids, and Dick sighs sympathetically—he’s had enough nightmares himself to recognize the signs. He leans over and gently shakes Tim by the shoulder.

“Hey.” He waits, but apparently Tim is one of those people who sleeps like a rock, so he tries again. “ _Hey._ C’mon buddy, it’s just a dream.”

Tim jerks awake, gasping for breath like a drowning man. He stares at Dick’s hand blankly, looking confused. Dick bites his lip, not sure what to do now, and goes to pull away. But Tim lets out a choked, sobbing sound and practically falls forward against Dick, clinging to him.

Figuring that there’s nothing else he can do, he pulls the boy into a hug, rubbing his back soothingly.

“Okay,” Dick says, trying to remember the things his parents said when he’d had bad dreams. Nothing comes to mind though, so he settles on “You’re okay. It was just a dream.”

_So lame. Dear God, now I know why Bruce was so awkward with me for the first year._

“It’s okay buddy. I got ya.”  _Slightly less lame._

He can feel every breath Tim takes rattling in the boy’s chest. But he doesn’t comment, because he’s pretty sure that the kid is still mostly asleep—from their limited interactions, he’s gotten the impression that Tim doesn’t _do_ physical contact normally.

In a few minutes, Tim must have fallen back asleep, because he’s settled down again, breath evening out as much as it possibly can. He’s still holding onto Dick’s shirt though, and Dick’s not actually sure how to get the boy off without waking him back up.

After some debate, he shifts so he can lay down without crushing Tim. It’s still one of the most awkward positions he’s ever been stuck lying in. But he didn’t wake up Tim, so he figures it’s worth the discomfort. Besides, he can fall asleep anywhere, given enough time. _I really hope he’s not contagious though._

Dick wakes up freezing. It’s actually cold enough that he’s _shivering_ when he wakes up. Tim, despite being some sort of human furnace from his fever, is shivering slightly too, but he’s still asleep in spite of that. Dick stares at the boy for a moment, wondering how that’s even possible, but he’s beginning to think that Tim’s pretty much immune to the laws of physics, physiology, and all other laws of nature and science.

Tim _has_ let go of Dick’s shirt though, so he eases himself up and goes to find a blanket or space heater or something. After some searching, Dick finds exactly _one_ comforter, tucked into a closet. Still freezing, he hikes back to the bedroom, where he finds Tim awake, sitting up with a slightly confused look on his face.

“Hey!” Dick says, flopping down on the bed with the comforter. “It is _freezing_ in here. How are you feeling?”

“Um…” Tim croaks, “Okay?”

“Awesome. Do you know how to adjust the thermostat? I mean, it’s _really_ cold.”

“’s not on.” The boy says, breaking into a prolonged coughing fit.

Dick goes into the bathroom and gets him a cup of water. He feels bad, because he probably should have woke Tim up once or twice to take some medicine. _There’s no fixing that now though._

“So…why is the thermostat off?” He asks once the kid finally stops coughing. “I mean, it’s still really chilly out here, even in the summer.”

Tim shrugs. He’s still got this bemused expression, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“Um…m-my parents d-don’t like to pay for heat w-when they aren’t here. ‘s a waste of money.”

“…Okay…” He can’t think of anything to say that’s appropriate for a sick kid, so Dick just claps his hands decisively. “Well, I think it’s time for breakfast and medicine. Pancakes all right?”

“Oh, you don’t have to—“

“Take these, I’m going to make pancakes. Do _not_ try to come downstairs. Just yell if you need something.” Dick orders, shoving the pills into Tim’s hand.

The kid gapes, and he’s still staring when Dick goes downstairs. As soon as he’s sure he’s out of earshot, Dick pulls out his phone and punches in a number.

“Hey Alfred!” He says as soon as the line picks up. “So I did what you asked…”

“Master Richard, how nice to hear from you.” The old man says drily. “And what was that?”

“Checked in on Tim for you. Anyway, that’s why I’m calling.”

“Oh dear. What happened?”

Dick sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to find a not-so-accusatory way of putting things. “Well, he’s fine. But…uh, please tell me you didn’t know that he was staying here alone?”

“He was _what?”_ Alfred’s horrified tone immediately answers Dick’s question. “I was under the impression that there was at least a housekeeper?”

“Yeah, _every two weeks._ ” Dick’s got the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, trying to measure out pancake batter. “And he doesn’t even know _where_ his parents are.”

There’s a horrified sound from the other end, which Dick agrees with whole-heartedly.

“…How _is_ Timothy then?” Alfred asks, voice shaking ever so slightly—he’s berating himself for not checking on the boy before this.

“He’s…okay. Um, I think he probably has bronchitis, if the coughing’s any indication. And he’s been running a fever since I got here yesterday. But, yeah…” Dick sighs. “Alfie, he hadn’t eaten in over _a day_ when I got here. He was sleeping on the _couch_ because he was too tired to get up to his room. I mean, just… _how_ could—“, he can’t think of the word, so he just makes a frustrated noise.

Alfred sighs. “’How could we let this happen’? I do not know. Part of the fault is definitely mine—I knew some of the situation in the Drake household, and I knew that he wasn’t well, but I still sent him back. I just assumed that there was someone looking after him.”

“Which is my other point.” Dick says irritably, flipping pancakes clumsily. “Why is this situation even happening? Bruce knows about it, right? He would never…right?”

It’s a desperate question. There’s no way that his father would do something like that, no matter how upset he was or how little he liked the boy. At least, Dick can’t believe that. But he keeps recalling the excuse Bruce had used—“I’m not his father.”

“He feels it’s rather too complicated a situation, and is, at least in some small part, correct. The Drakes are not an unconnected family, and they definitely seem to have their bases covered. I doubt reporting their neglect would produce any true results—they’re, by all appearances, quite the loving, supportive family. They’ve never left the boy without a place to stay or food, and, to my knowledge, they’ve never so much as touched him…although that’s not a positive thing in some lights too. But there’s no way any court in Gotham would remove him from the home.”

“And he can’t just, oh, I don’t know…stay at the Manor when they’re gone?”

“I believe we’ve discussed that before.” Alfred sounds frustrated. “Master Bruce is not the same man he was before, I fear.”

“Well, this can’t go on either!” Dick snaps, trying to figure out how to balance two plates and a glass of orange juice— _that’s what you give sick people, right?_ “I mean, even just right now, he can’t stay here like this. And I…I’d stay, but…I do have a job. And he’s not technically family, so I can’t get time off. But…he can barely _breathe._ Hell, I had to _carry him_ upstairs. Oh, and did I mention that the thermostat is turned off? It’s freezing here.”

“Good heavens.” Alfred sounds appalled. “Yes, well, I agree that he cannot remain there alone.” He pauses for a long moment, and Dick stalls, wanting to finish the conversation before he gets upstairs. “Right. I want you to get some of his things together, get him bundled up, and come over here. And before you ask, no, I do _not_ care what Master Bruce wants.”

Dick can’t help grinning. “Okay. So I’ll see you in about two hours then. Cool. I’ve gotta go—I managed to make pancakes, and they’re no good cold.”

He hangs up the phone and goes upstairs. Tim must have actually listened to him, because he’s fallen back asleep. Dick almost lets him keep sleeping. Almost. But he’s got food and a plan, so that’s not an option right now.

“C’mon kiddo, rise and shine!”

Tim groans, but he rolls over and sits up groggily.

“I brought food.” Dick sets the plate down carefully on the bedside table, before taking a seat himself on the bean bag chair. “Um…is there, like, something on my face or something? I mean…”

The boy blinks abruptly and looks away quickly. “Sorry. I just…sorry.”

“’s cool. ‘Just’ what?” Dick’s curious now.

“Um…I, uh…didn’t actually think you were making breakfast.”

“Again, I _can_ cook. Jeez!”

“No, I didn’t…” Tim looks embarrassed. “It’s just…I guess I thought it was a…um, dream.” He shrugs, refusing to meet Dick’s gaze. “Nobody’s ever, um… _stayed_ with me when…I mean, it’s really boring to be s-stuck with a sick k-kid, and…uh…n-n-never mind.” He mutters, staring at his plate as though it’s somehow offended him.

Dick wants very much to beat the crap out of both Drake parents and cry, all at the same time. _I swear, this freaking kid! Dammit._

“Well, I did.” He states, digging into his own plate of pancakes. “ _And_ I made breakfast. So eat some of it, okay? I mean, you didn’t even finish the soup last night, and you hadn’t eaten before that.”

Tim nods and starts to chew determinedly, clearly glad that Dick’s not pressing the matter. He manages to get down most of the pancakes, as well as the entire cup of orange juice, which is definitely a victory. Dick waits to broach the subject of leaving until after the kid’s definitely done eating.

“How do your lungs feel?” Dick asks casually.

“Sore. They kinda feel like I’ve got cement in them.” Tim sighs. “But I don’t feel so dizzy now.”

“Good. So…you know you can’t stay here alone anymore, right?”

“…Yeah.” The boy mutters grudgingly. “But Mrs. Mac is out—“

“So you’re gonna come back to Wayne Manor with me today, and you can stay there until you’re better _or_ Mrs. Mac gets back. Okay?”

Tim nods, wide-eyed. He looks thoroughly stunned, and doesn’t seem capable of putting actual words together, so he just points whenever Dick asks for the location of something. It’s a slower process, but he’s still finished packing some clothes and other supplies in record time.

“You okay to get yourself dressed?” Dick asks, sincerely hoping Tim is, because they’re not _that_ well-acquainted.

“Yeah.”

It takes forever, but he emerges from the bathroom looking flushed but triumphant. Dick refrains from making any sarcastic comments about how long it took and throws a jacket at Tim.

“It’s cold.” Tim scowls, so Dick adds “Put it on, or I’ll tell Alfred.”

The threat works—Tim slips into the jacket, still glaring. He looks defiant enough for the action to be rebellious. Dick doesn’t really care as long as he wears the coat.

“Thank you. So…do you actually care what clothes I pack?”

“Uh-uh.” Tim shakes his head, the winces because it makes his headache come back. “Um…I can pack, you know?”

“Yes…” Dick drawls out. “But you’ll take forever. Besides, I’m done. And it’s not like you live hours away, so we can come back if I forgot something. Okay?”

Tim mumbles some sort of an answer, and snatches the bag out of Dick’s hands. Dick lets him, because it’d be a bigger battle not to. _Besides, it’s not like he’s a total invalid. I just hope that Alfred doesn't disagree...  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbt, I didn't even realize for sure that Tim had living parents until way after he was Robin. I mean, who the hell leaves their kid home year round? I mean, sure, there's boarding school, but during the summer where's he supposed to go?  
> Also, sick kids are so incredibly difficult. Seriously. Like, please stop trying to get up and eat things, you are vomiting every ten minutes! In related news, the three-year-old is sick, but FINALLY asleep and I am tired.


	3. Conditions and Discussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick's never EVER having kids. But it seems like Bruce might be working on his parenting skills.

They get to the Manor around one, and Dick’s so entirely ready to pass off the responsibility of Tim to someone else—the whole thing has definitely made him reevaluate both having kids… _ever,_ and also the whole moving-to-Bludhaven-because-Bruce is-a-capable-adult thing.

He’s not moving back. That’s obvious, even now. But he’s definitely going to have to make some changes, because Bruce _is_ his dad, and eventually ( _hopefully)_ he’ll snap out of this. And if it takes too long, he’ll snap out and it’ll already be too late for the newest Robin. Bruce will never forgive himself if the boy gets hurt…or _dies._ Dick’s _not_ going to let that happen.

Alfred is currently arguing with Tim over what counts as “healthy”. Dick knows from experience that the kid will ultimately lose, but it’s so goddamn entertaining to watch someone else try to stand up to Alfred.

“Being able to breathe is _not_ healthy enough for you to go back to patrolling!” Alfred is saying irritably. “Nor is it healthy enough for you to be allowed to stay alone.”

“W-wasn’t ‘alone’!” Tim protests, albeit half-heartedly. “And it i-is t-too healthy ‘nough. B-batman does it!”

“Because he is an _adult_ and I do not have much say into his actions. You, on the other hand, are twelve, and I have _full_ say over what you may do at this time.”

Dick snickers, enjoying the look on Tim’s face—he’s never seen anyone looks both so confused and also so put-out. Both of them look over at his laugh.

“I was j-just _fine._ A-ask Dick!”

“Um…you nearly burned your hands off? And you couldn’t walk up the stairs? Also it took you, like, ten minutes to get dressed?” Dick shrugs. “Sorry man. I’m siding with Alfie on this one.”

Tim crosses his arms and _pouts._ It is quite possibly the cutest thing Dick has seen in a while. Alfred shoots him a thankful look, then ushers the boy towards a guest room. It’s not in the same wing as where everyone else sleeps, Dick notes. He wonders idly if this is more because of Tim’s strange little quirks or because Alfred hopes to avoid Bruce’s inevitable tantrum for as long as possible.

As soon as the boy is settled and Alfred has won the battle over using an I.V. drip, he comes back downstairs to join Dick in the kitchen. The two silently prepare tea and settle at the dining table to relax with them.

“So…” Dick says after about five minutes of companionable silence. “I’m thinking that I can manage to swing by at least every other week. Just, you know, to keep an eye on things.”

Alfred smiles over the rim of his cup. “I think that would be wise.”

“Any reason that he’s in one of the rooms on the opposite side of the house?”

“It’s a temporary measure.” Alfred says coolly. “First, the unused rooms are dreadfully dusty right now, and second, it’ll hopefully give Timothy some time to recuperate before Master Bruce weighs in on the situation.”

Dick sighs and shakes his head. “This is _ridiculous.”_

“Indeed.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the evening. Dick goes downstairs to the cave after his drink, where he proceeds to work out some of his anger on one of the sparring dummies. He manages to avoid Bruce all night, and since it’s almost Monday, he has to leave that night in order to be on time for work in the morning.

He stops by to check on Tim on his way out. The bed is empty, which might be a surprise if he hadn’t spent enough time with Tim to expect some sort of shit like this. Dick bites his lip, debating whether he should call Alfred or not.

After a few seconds of deliberation, he decides against it. The boy cannot have gotten far, considering that he’s taken the I.V. tower with him. Dick starts down the hall, checking in the most logical places. Finally, he finds Tim in a small library that he’d almost forgotten even existed. The room is so small that he almost walks past without noticing the boy. Tim has tucked himself into the corner of a comfy-looking couch, curled up into a tiny ball. He’s got a book open next to him, although it’s obvious that he’s not reading it anymore. The kid’s mostly asleep, and Dick is pleased to note that the boy’s breathing is definitely less labored.

“Hey kiddo.” He says softly, hoping that maybe the kid is sleepy enough to not notice—he doesn’t need to be responsible if no one knows he was there. _Because that’s exactly how adults handle things_.

But it’s _Tim,_ so he responds with “How was patrol?” while trying to shift into a more alert position.

Dick can’t keep from laughing a little over that as he moves to sit down on the couch. “Oh, it was okay. Not _nearly_ as exciting as that last one we did together. And it was really, _really_ wet and cold.”

“No falling through floors?” Tim asks in mock sympathy. “How did you handle the boredom?”

“A lot of coffee breaks. How’re the lungs?”

“Like they’re stuffed with mud.”

“That’s better then?”

“Well, it’s not cement.” Tim smiles for a moment. Then, in a much more serious voice, “Is, uh, Mr. Wayne m-mad?”

Dick shakes his head. “Nah. Well, not with you. He’s gonna be _pissed_ at me ‘n Alfred, but it’ll be cool. I’m pretty good at ignoring him and _nobody_ stays mad at Alfred. Don’t worry about it.”

Tim looks miserable again. “I’m sorry. I d-didn’t mean to—“

“Hey, it’s all good! I am an adult and therefore capable of making my own decisions. _You_ didn’t do anything, so stop feeling guilty.” Dick looks intently at the boy. “Got it?”

The boy’s expression is dubious, but he nods, either because he believes it, or, more likely, because he wants Dick to drop it. Dick lets it go, because there’s no point in arguing, and he’s got a hunch that it’ll take a lot more than one incident and a conversation to convince the kid that _he_ _isn’t responsible for every bad thing in the world._

“Look, Timmy, you can’t sit in here all night. It’s pretty chilly. And Alfred will _freak_ if you aren’t in bed when he checks on you later.” He holds out a hand. “Let’s go.”

Tim reluctantly takes the proffered hand. “Fine.”

Dick decides against saying anything about the attitude, because he’s _not_ fighting with a twelve year old, _he’s not._ He also pretends not to notice the way Tim sort of leans against him, like he’s not really up to walking any more.

“You really need to stop getting stuck places.” Dick mutters about half-way down the hall.

“I _wasn’t_ ‘stuck’.” Tim protests, scowling again. “I was just _resting.”_

“That’s what beds are for.”

Tim mutters something that sounds like “well nobody else minds”. This, of course, is a depressing statement, especially since apparently _Dick_ is the bad guy here, not the people _actually responsible_ for the boy.

“Okay, last stop.”

“What if I want a drink?” Tim asks snarkily.

“Tough.” Dick says, not really amused. “Bed. Now.”

Tim complies grumpily. “You’re not the boss of me. Ow!”

The I.V. tower snagged on the bed post, effectively ripping it out of the boy’s arm. Blood starts to run down his arm, until Tim decides to use his shirt to stop the flow. Dick grimaces in sympathy, righting the medical equipment.

“Well,” he says, inspecting the damage. “The drip was almost done anyway. Dude, you’re ruining that shirt.”

“It’s _my_ shirt.”

“Wasn’t a detail I really care about. I’m gonna grab a Band-Aid from the bathroom. Maybe get the shirt off while I do that?”

Tim’s found a way to get the shirt off without bleeding everywhere. _That’s impressive,_ Dick notes. He trades the Band-Aid for the ruined piece of clothing. It takes a few seconds of digging in the bag, but he finally finds a shirt and tosses it at Tim.

“Here.” Dick says, trying to find a trashcan. “Uh, this shirt’s toast. Sorry.”

“’s okay.”

 _That’s good, cuz I can’t really do anything if it’s not._ Dick groans softly in disgust as he looks at the blood he’s now got on his hands. He glances over to see how the kid’s getting on. Tim’s sort of stuck with the shirt half on, coughing.

“You got it?” Dick asks, because it seems like a good thing to ask. Then he frowns a little. “Where’d you get that?” he gestures to a long, pink scar that trails along just under Tim’s collar bone and down to his ribs. “’s not from being Robin, is it?”

“Oh. Um…” Tim touches the scar almost subconsciously. “I, uh, fell off a fire escape one night. I caught myself before I hit the ground, but, uh, I cut myself on something doing it. ‘S no big deal.”

Dick must look horrified, because he quickly adds “No, really. It was a long time ago anyway. Um…are you okay?”

“You did that while you were following us?”

“I think so? It _was_ a long time ago. And I didn’t go out _just_ to watch Batman and Robin, you know. Sometimes I just wanted to get out of the house.”

It’s easy to pick up the things he’s not saying— _I was lonely. It was better than staying in an empty house. Nobody cared._ Dick is beginning to feel like spending time with Tim is going to be a depressing thing more often than not. But he _does_ see the sense of humor, the stubbornness hiding there too—there’s a smart little kid hiding in there, one who had the guts to follow his heroes around in the middle of the night _and_ the nerve to confront them and argue with them.

 _Oh, shit. I’m getting attached. …This was_ probably _what Alfred was trying to do in the first place._

“Well, maybe try not to do that from now on? Impalement is a nasty way to go.” _And I’m terrible at this._

“I’ll k-keep that in mind.” Tim says drily. He’s gotten the shirt on and is fidgeting with the edge of the Band-Aid. “Thanks.”

Dick forces a grin. “No problem. Look, I’m gonna have to get going. Got work in the morning and all that. And you probably should try to sleep, because, honestly, dude? You look like crap.”

“Yeah, okay.” _Is it just me, or does he actually look disappointed?_

“I’ll be back in a few days, okay? Just…just hang in there. And if Bruce starts being an ass, _call me,_ alright? Because I can’t help if I don’t know. And for God’s sake, please, _please_ listen to Alfred when he says you’re too sick to do something. I don’t wanna get back here and find out that you ended up in the hospital or something because you didn’t listen. Got it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I expect you to be up to some sparring when I get back.”

“Okay.” Tim looks much less depressed now. “Can you show me how to do a flip on the trapeze? I keep screwing it up.”

“Sure thing.” Dick grins. “I’ll see you then.”

He leaves the room and has every intention of heading back to Bludhaven. But he sees the light on under the door to Bruce’s study, and he decides to stop in. He knocks lightly and then enters.

“Hey. You got a minute?”

Bruce looks up, clearly surprised. “Dick? I didn’t know you were here.”

“Yeah, well,” Dick flops onto the sofa positioned to one side of the room. “I just dropped in on an unplanned visit. Thought I’d say ‘hey’.”

“Well, it’s nice to see you. What’s up?”

Dick sighs, sitting up. “Look, I’m gonna say some things, and I just want you to listen, okay?”

“…Okay.”

“Great. So, first off, I’m gonna start coming around more often, okay? Just for a while. I, uh, yeah. Anyway! I’ll work with you on two conditions. One: you treat me like an equal. We’re partners, yes, but I’m not a little kid and I’m not a sidekick anymore. Two: you’re gonna let Tim stay here when his parents are gone, because he _is_ a little kid and if you don’t take better care of him as much as _you can,_ he’s gonna wind up _dead.”_

“That’s not—“ Bruce starts to protest.

“’Fair’? Um, yes, it _is._ You’re the adult, he’s the kid, and you can’t pretend otherwise. I’ve been watching you. I’ve _seen_ you blow him off, act like he’s supposed to be the responsible one. That’s not how Batman treats Robin.”

“I _never_ wanted him to _be_ Robin!” Bruce growls, sitting up ram-rod straight. “I _never_ asked to be responsible for him. I shouldn’t have to be!”

Dick sits up, just as tense. “Well he _is!_ He’s Robin now, so deal with it! You became responsible the minute you found out that his parents aren’t. Bruce, no matter how much you don’t want it to be, Tim _is_ Robin. He’s Robin, he’s twelve, and he _knows_ you don’t want him around. Believe me, he knows. Hell, he _expects_ people to not want him around. And you’re his goddamn hero. Think about that.”

“That’s completely unfair. And what gives you a right to come here and _judge_ me?”

“Um…maybe the fact that _I_ was the one who created Robin. That was _my_ title, and that makes it my responsibility to make sure you respect that title.”

Bruce sputters, but he can’t think of anything to say to that. It’s actually true, not that he’ll admit that to Dick.

“Look.” Dick sighs. “I’m not trying to fight. Hell, I’d like to _not_ fight anymore. But I’ve got conditions. You need to respect that, okay? If not because we’re equals, than because…” he swallows a growing lump in his throat. “Because we’re family.”

He stops, waiting for a response. He hadn’t meant to set all his cards on the table. It’d just…happened.

Finally, Bruce speaks. “You’re right, Dick.” He pauses for a second. “I…agree to the conditions, and I will try my best to respect them.”

Dick relaxes, letting a small smile creep across his face. “Thanks, B.”

Bruce nods, standing up and gesturing towards the door. “You’ve got work in the morning, right? I’ll walk you out.”

Surprised that Bruce actually remembers his schedule, Dick nods and walks out with his father. The older man unexpectedly claps a hand on Dick’s shoulder, squeezing slightly. He’s known Bruce long enough to know that this is the Bruce Wayne version of a hug.

Neither man speaks until they reach the front door. Dick turns and grins at Bruce.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Of course.” Bruce says. Then, after hesitating, “I’m proud of you, Dick.”

Dick grins wider, decides that he’ll just go for it, and quickly hugs Bruce. Then he heads outside. “I’ll see you in a few days!” He calls over his shoulder.

When he looks back as he pulls out of the drive, he can see Bruce still standing in the doorway, watching. Dick feels himself relax in a way that he hasn’t been able to in weeks. _Maybe everything will be all right after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for Bruce and Dick having actual conversations and shit. It happens every now and then, and it's honestly one of my favorite parts of those comics. This chapter was a lot of exposition, so that's cool. The next (and last) chapter will be much more action-y.  
> Update on my munchkins: three year old is feeling much better! Other three year old is still eating those squishy stress balls (Why, God, WHY???) and she's apparently immune to all rules of germs. The one year old has started talking (joy), but she's still cute, so we can't complain too much. Good times :D


	4. The Ones that We Choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Bruce isn't fully a lost cause.

It’s been a month and two weeks since Dick started stopping by regularly. He and Bruce have maintained a courteous sort of distance this whole time. It’s not quite comfortable, but it’s a hell of a lot better than it was before.

The situation with Tim and Bruce has improved slightly as well. Tim spends most nights at the Manor these days—Dick is pretty sure that the boy’s only gone back to his own house once, and that was to retrieve some school books. Bruce has stopped being quite so formal with the boy, and he’s started to actually acknowledge when Tim does a good job. It’s not perfect and there’s still a lot of ground to be gained, but it definitely makes patrols less miserable.

Of course, this is little consolation currently, sitting in the drizzle and wind. It’s one of those rare moments where Dick actually _misses_ the cape he wore as Robin. _Especially_ since he’s been sitting with Robin for the past thirty minutes, and the boy looks a whole lot less wet and cold than he does, all wrapped up in the cape, hood pulled up. He’s also using Nightwing as a wind shield, which just seems to rub it in further.

“See anything yet?” He asks between shivers.

Robin tilts his head, as though considering. “Nope. There’s a stray cat over there, but that’s about it.”

Nightwing groans and shifts to a slightly less-wet position. “Great. Okay, as the senior hero here, I’m declaring this a bust if we don’t see anyone in the next ten minutes. I mean, is it really going to matter if we don’t manage to get a jump on a group of guys who call themselves ‘The Waahni’?”

“B-batman won’t like that.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not the one freezing his ass off out here. What’re these guys doing anyway?”

Robin shrugs. “Dunno. Batman didn’t let me see most of the files. From what I read, I think they’re smugglers?”

“Great.” Nightwing groans again. “So we’re chasing around some gang of morons who _might_ be smugglers, in the middle of a shitty storm? Wonderful.”

“Sorry.” Robin frowns, looking somewhere to the right. “Hey, is that someone over there? I think that’s them.”

Nightwing squints in the direction indicated. After a second he can make out several men who match the description of the men they’re looking for. _Also, who the hell else would be out in this weather? Not anybody sane, present company excepted. Sort of._

They move silently, completely in sync. Each takes a position on one of the two roofs the men stand more or less under. Robin hops down first, taking out the man he landed on. The others whirl around, reaching for weapons. Nightwing takes the opening, slamming hard into one of the men’s back, sending him crashing into one of his companions. The three remaining men scatter.

“Shit!” Nightwing looks around, before making a quick decision. “Okay, Robin, you get that one, I’ll take the other two. Leave your comm _on!”_

They split up, racing in opposite directions. Nightwing can hear his companion’s steady breathing over the comm. It’s reassuring to hear.

He sees one of the men up ahead and throws one of his escrima sticks. It connects with the man’s head with a satisfying “ _crack”._ The fellow drops like a marionette cut loose. Nightwing grins ferally, barely pausing to check that the man’s still breathing. He can hear the other one swearing up ahead.

“You all good, Robin?” he asks, bearing down on the remaining man.

“Roger that,” Robin’s voice crackles over the static. “Had to try a different strategy—he went into the shipping yard.”

Nightwing frowns. “Be careful.”

He doesn’t have time to hear the response as the sudden “ _crack!”_ of a gun sounds out and there’s a sudden, burning pain in his shoulder. Swearing, he dives to the side in time to avoid a second shot.

Scrambling for his comm, Nightwing calls Batman. “We need back-up down here. Shots fired.”

“Copy that.” Batman’s response is swift and firm. “ETA in ten.”

Nightwing sighs, pleased to hear that the vigilante is on the way. He listens for the next shot, then leaps when it fires off. A swift palm strike and an elbow to the ribs and the man goes down. Nightwing grabs the gun, unloading it deftly. He’s breathing a bit harder than normal, starting to feel the pain in his shoulder.

“My guys are down,” He announces into the comm. “Robin, how you doin’?”

There’s a long pause, then “I’m working on it.”

“I’m coming.” Nightwing declares, concerned at the breathless way the boy sounded. “And B’s on the way. Just hang tight.”

“Got it.”

Nightwing runs back in the direction he’d come from as soon as he’s gotten the men immobilized. He’s nearly back where they started when the comm crackles to life again.

“…need some help!” The comm cuts in and out as the wind picks up. “There’s…I can’t…oh, _shi—“_

There’s the sudden sound of something clanging, several mostly unintelligible voices, and the comm goes silent.

Nightwing picks up the pace. “Robin, come in! _Robin!”_

He’s nearly to the shipping yard when Batman appears. The man is also racing towards the shipping yard, having heard the entire interaction. They enter the yard as a dead run, straining to hear anything that might indicate the location of their partner.

“I’ll take the left quadrant, you take the right.” Batman orders, already in motion again. “Radio in _as soon_ as you find something.”

Nightwing nods, moving quickly and silently. His mind keeps wandering back to another boy who had depended on them. _Batman had been too late then, and Rob—No,_ Jason _died because of it._ He shakes his head firmly, trying to push the thought aside. _Don’t think about that. Don’t think about how he must of felt, waiting for people who never arrived. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think!_

“I’ve found something.” Batman— _only that’s not_ Batman’s _voice, it’s Bruce’s—_ says suddenly.

Trying not to focus on the way he sounded or the way he said “something” instead of “him”, Dick speeds to the coordinates, nearly falling flat once when he finds an uneven part of the cement. He comes to a halt quickly, skidding up to where Bruce is standing.

 _He left his bo staff,_ is the first thing that pops into Dick’s head. The scene is relatively clean, by their standards. There’s little blood, no bodies. But there is a bo staff lying on the wet cement, a crushed earpiece a few feet to the right.

“I…he…” Dick tries to come up with a coherent thought that isn’t _“we failed.”_

“They can’t have gotten far, and there’s a tracking device in his suit.” Bruce states, slipping back into Batman’s persona. “Oracle is activating it now.”

Dick nods numbly, scooping up the staff before he follows Batman back towards the entrance.

“Who are these guys?” he asks, because there _has_ to be a reason that they’d decide to take Robin instead of killing and leaving him.

Batman shakes his head in frustration. “I still haven’t uncovered their entire purpose yet. I know they were smuggling in weapons and drugs, but that’s all I’ve confirmed. There were rumors, but I haven’t substantiated them ye—“

A gunshot sounds from somewhere in the near distance, cutting him off. Both men whip their heads up, turning in the direction. Then they start to run towards, moving in tandem.

“ _What_ rumors?” Nightwing asks, wanting to make sure he’s got _all_ the information.

“That they were involved in…other things too.” Batman sighs. “Human trafficking was the main one, and I was working to ascertain whether that was correct or not.”

Knowing how much the older man hates to admit he doesn’t know something does little to help ease the rising concern Nightwing feels. He’s much less inclined to push emotions aside, always has been. And right now, all he can think of is the fact that he was _responsible_ for Tim, and now the boy is in definite danger.

“Well, if that’s the worst case scenario,” he draws in a deep breath, “Then let’s assume that’s what’s at stake here. Why didn’t you warn us?”

To his credit, Batman doesn’t react to the accusatory tone. “I didn’t know. Nothing was confirmed, and to be honest, I wasn’t even certain that there was any real reason to believe that they were involved in anything else. I mean, they’re named after _foxes._ That’s not exactly convincing evidence of intelligence.”

Nightwing has no argument for that, so he focuses on controlling his heartrate. They slow down, moving with more caution as voices become audible. Without a word, they split up, slowly moving to get a clear view and flank the people.

 There are five of them—Dick recognizes one of the men from earlier, but the rest are new to him. From this angle, he can see Robin, who looks remarkably unimpressed for someone who’s currently tied up _and_ being very firmly held by a rather large man. It’s almost a ridiculous scene—and if he didn’t know better, Nightwing would probably have called it overkill. But Robin isn’t an average kid, and, even if he’s unexperienced, he’s still capable of causing some serious damage. Still, he’s not entirely certain that warrants being practically pinned down by a friggin’ giant.

One of the men has a gun, which he’s currently waving around dramatically. He’s clearly not really in charge, but he’s trying hard to be intimidating. Of course, it’s hard to posture when there’s a little kid _rolling his eyes_ at you.

Nightwing looks around, noting Batman’s position behind the men. He grins a little, because it’s going to be ridiculously entertaining to watch the Bat jump these idiots. And then he very carefully takes aim and flings a batarang, watching it fly through the air, cracking into the man’s gun hand.

The gun drops, the other men jump, and Nightwing leaps out of the shadows, slamming hard into the nearest guy. He can hear Batman moving too, the men swearing, feet scuffing the ground. And then there’s another gunshot, only this one is followed swiftly by a cry of pain.

Both vigilantes freeze. There’s one man left standing, gun in hand and pressed firmly against Robin’s head. There’s a growing wet spot on his side, up near the ribs—clearly blood. Robin, while extremely pale, is still conscious and shoots them both a tight smile, pain clearly written on his face.

“Both of you put your hands up!” the man orders. He’s clearly panicking, though it _sounds_ like he may be getting a grip now. “Just…freeze there.”

They do so reluctantly.

“You might want to rethink this.” Batman says in a voice that’s basically one step above a growl. Then, in a much calmer voice, “I imagine you have demands, the key one being that we don’t help arrest you, I’m sure. So why don’t you just let the boy go, and we’ll figure out what to do? I mean, you’ve already got us beat.”

It’s not one of his better attempts at talking someone down, but the man actually seems to waiver for a second. And that’s all it takes for Robin to slam his foot down on the man’s instep and sort of dive forward and away. It’s not a smooth move, but it gets him out of the way for Batman to throw a batarang at the man’s head.

The guy drops the gun to duck, and Batman _moves._ He pulls the injured boy up and shoves him towards Nightwing in one swift motion and keeps going, slamming into the unfortunate thug.

As he bundles the kid out of the area, Nightwing does wonder if he can trust Batman not to kill the guy…not that he’d be particularly upset with that. He also really wishes that they hadn’t walked—well, swung—here. They make it out of the shipping yard, and Nightwing slows to a halt. _Did B remember to call us a ride?_

The display in his mask tells him that Batman _has_ called the Batmobile, but it’s still a good ten minutes out. _Not good._ He grimaces, shifting the majority of Robin’s weight— _how the hell is this kid still standing?—_ to his good arm.

“You still with me?” _Is there any way to get out of this godforsaken rain?_

“’m ‘kay.” The boy squirms a little, like he’s trying to get his balance. “’s c- _cold.”_

Nightwing bites his lip, looking around tensely—the slurred speech isn’t a good sign, and he’s pretty sure that Robin’s already going into shock.  “Yeah, I’m working on that. Um…okay. You think you can make it to that place across the street? It’s dry if we stand under the awning.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer and drags them both across the street. It’s dryer, but only by a little. He sort of props the kid up against the wall while digging around for the emergency kit.

“Okay. We gotta put pressure on that.” He grimaces, because the injury definitely isn’t— _too close the lungs, too close._ “Is anything else hurt?”

“m’ head. H-it it on…um…” The boy trails off, then hisses in pain when Dick starts to pack gauze against the bullet wound. “…think I, uh…b-broke the m-mask.”

Dick frown, swiping irritably at water that keeps dripping down on his own mask. “Well…” _Bruce is gonna be_ pissed _if he takes it off._ “You want it off?” The kid nods. “Okay. Keep pressure on this and I’ll get it off.” _Fuck Bruce. Besides, there’s a pretty good cut on his forehead, so we’ll just say that the mask was in the way._

Tim’s lips are a sickening shade of blue, and he’s started to wheeze a bit by the time Dick’s got the mask off and takes over applying pressure to the wound again.  The mask display says there’s another eight minutes before the ride will get there. He tries to signal Batman, but there’s no response.

“Great.” Dick mutters, shifting so he can lean against the wall without letting up on the pressure. He’s sort of holding Tim now, which is probably not a bad idea—the boy’s freezing, and maybe it’ll warm him up some? “Okay, we have to wait for the car, so stay with me. You can’t cop out on me yet. Got it?”  
The response is mostly unintelligible, but seems affirmative. 

Dick sighs, and uses his free hand to try and rub some warmth back into the kid. “You really scared us back there, kiddo. _Really._ B was ready to lose it.”

“s n-not funny.” Tim mumbles, frowning a little.

“Hey, I’m _serious._ Those guys’ll be lucky if they have full function after tonight.” Dick says earnestly, shifting slightly to relieve the pressure to his injured shoulder. “Nobody gets to shoot Robin and get away with it. Besides, where’d we ever find a good replacement, huh?” He immediately bites his lip, because it had sounded funny to him, but Tim wasn’t exactly in a position to recognize the joke. “Um, not that we’d ever _want_ to replace you. I mean, you’re already kind of a badass, and that’s with almost _no_ training. So…”

He tries to think of something else to say, but nothing comes to mind. Just then, Batman materializes out of the rain and fog. Dick almost _laughs,_ because it’s so dramatic.

“Hey, B. Get everything straightened out?”

Batman grunts noncommittally and crouches down next to them. “More or less. How’re you holding up, Robin?”

Tim makes an effort to grin, gives up, and settles for a thumbs up. “’wes’m.”

“Hmm. Nightwing, how’s your shoulder?”

Dick grimaces a little. “I’ll live. Is there any way to get the batmobile here sooner?”

“Let me see what I can do.” Batman frowns for a moment, then he detaches his cape and drapes it over both of them. “Just stay put.”

“Yeah, we’ll do that.” Dick mutters sarcastically. “Thanks.” He does, however, not even pretend to hesitate before tucking the cape as tightly around Tim as he can.

Just as quickly as he appeared the first time, Batman is back, kneeling next to them.

“It’ll be here in about three minutes.” He sighs in frustration, rubbing a hand across his face. “You need to stay awake until then, Robin.”

The boy’s eyes are closed, but he hums in acknowledgement. Batman frowns— _he’s worried. Like, actually worried,_ Dick realizes. _And…of course Tim’s not conscious enough to see it. We’ll have to work on that._

“Have you stopped the bleeding?” The older man asks, already gently tugging the cape aside so he can see.

The bandages pressed over the wound are already a dark, wet mess. Dick hisses sympathetically and Bruce’s face actually grows grimmer. There’s the sound of a roaring engine in the distance, and then the batmobile rounds the corner and screeches to a stop. _Talk about perfect timing, sort of._

They bundle into the vehicle quickly. Dick bangs his injured shoulder against the doorframe as he tries to maneuver Tim and himself in. Bruce frowns from across the seat.

“Here, give him to me.” He orders, reaching over.

Dick’s too busy trying to keep from puking because of the pain to answer, but he willingly lets Bruce take over trying to stem the all-too-steady flow of blood. He’s a little surprised at how gentle the other man is in getting the boy into a semi-comfortable position. _Probably shouldn’t be surprised though. I mean, he_ did _raise me and Jason._ Dick stops thinking quickly then, before the rest of that train can make it to station.

The ride back is tense and quiet. Bruce pulls out the first aid kit, handing a roll of gauze to Dick and taking one himself. Tim’s apparently out for the count and doesn’t even make a sound when the car jolts over a pothole with enough force to send them all bouncing.

Alfred is waiting for them when the car pulls in. Bruce is out of the vehicle as soon as it stops, moving quickly across the cave with the injured boy firmly in his arms. Alfred follows, and Dick decides to take his time getting out and over to the medbay. He’s feeling dizzy, and probably should be more worried about the injury. But he’s more concerned that he’ll get in the way and distract them from patching up Tim. _And it’s a little hard to move._

Dick ends up passing out, which he is informed of the minute he wakes up by a very stern Alfred.

“Sorry, Alfie.” He says a little sheepishly. “How’s—“

“Master Timothy should be fine.” Alfred assures him quickly. “The bullet clipped a rib, and there were several bone shards that had to be removed. But there was no damage to internal organs—it was a one-in-a-million sort of miss. We put him in one of the guest rooms, and we’re hoping to keep him unconscious for as long as possible in an effort to prevent further damage.”

“Good.”

“Now, _you,_ Master Richard, are going to be resting for the rest of the week. You lost quite a bit of blood, as well as seriously straining your shoulder.” Alfred shakes his head despairingly. “Honestly, will you ever learn?”

Dick grins. “I’m a slow learner, you know that. So, um…can I get up? I’d _really_ like a shower…”

Alfred looks unimpressed. “You just want to go check on Timothy and brood over whatever mistakes you feel you’ve made.”

“That too.” The young man admits, looking a little ashamed.

“Very well. But kindly consider refraining from beating yourself up too thoroughly. Master Bruce is already doing that quite well.”

“Oh yeah? Where’s he at, anyway?”

Alfred offers him a hand up. “I asked him to keep an eye on the lad while I attended to you.”

Dick doesn’t ask why Alfred would think that was a good idea, and focuses on getting himself cleaned up and dressed. He insists on making it upstairs on his own.

It’s almost oppressively quiet when he gets to the bedrooms. There’s light coming from a half-open door, which he assumes is where Tim’s been settled. Dick pads over quietly and peers in.

Tim’s lying in the bed, looking disturbingly pale and small. He’s hooked up to several monitors and other pieces of equipment, which only helps with that impression. Bruce has pulled a chair over next to the head of the bed. He’s still wearing the Batman suit, sans cowl, slumping slightly from exhaustion. As Dick watches, the older man sighs, either in sadness or weariness. He leans forward and gently runs a hand through the unconscious child’s hair, brushing it back from his face in an almost tender gesture.

Dick smiles a little at the scene, then changes expressions and taps on the doorframe lightly.

Bruce looks up, an expression of surprise on his face when he sees Dick.

“Hey, B.”

“Dick.” Bruce pushes himself up out of the chair, groaning slightly. “How are you feeling?”

“Been better.” The young man admits ruefully. “Apparently, I’m benched for the rest of the week.”

“You’re lucky to not be _unconscious_ for a week.” Bruce says severely.

“Yeah, well…” Dick shrugs his good shoulder. “I thought I’d offer to relieve you so you could go get cleaned up. I mean, frankly, you look like crap.”

Bruce chuckles a little and nods in agreement. “Pot meet kettle. But I think I _will_ take you up on that offer.” He pats Dick lightly on the shoulder as he passes. “He should stay asleep. Alfred or I will be back in a little while so you can rest.”

Dick smiles gratefully, then moves to sit in the vacant chair. Either he’s very tired, or the chair is surprisingly comfortable, because he can’t help but sigh in relief, eyes almost drooping shut as he relaxes slightly. Dick quickly sits up straight, not wanting to fall asleep. He glances over at Tim’s unconscious form, almost fondly.

“Jeeze, kid, wish I got to sleep for a week.” He pauses, reaching over to take hold of one of the boy’s skinny wrists. He can feel the kid’s pulse, reassuringly steady. “You did good though, real good. Scared me half to death for a bit, but still.”

He’s quiet for a few minutes then, listening to the steady sounds from the machines, feeling the throb of Tim’s pulse under his fingers.

Finally, he sighs. “Bruce was pretty scared, you know. And proud, too. He’ll never admit it, but he was. You’ll just have to trust me on that—I’m something of an expert on Bruce’s _and_ Batman’s psychology there. I’ll have to teach you that, I guess. It’ll help you in the long run, kiddo. Of course, you’ll need to wake up and get better first. So you gotta listen to Alfred, he’s really the best.”

Dick wonders if the boy can even hear him. There were studies that said coma patients can hear stuff, but there are also ones that say the opposite. But he wants to make sure he gets this stuff out in the open as soon as possible, just on the off chance that Tim can hear him.

“You’re a pretty cool kid, you know. Stubborn as hell, and you really need to work on that smile, but other than that…” He feels incredibly tired now, and relaxes back into the chair. “You know, I was a real jerk to Jason. Well, I’m sure you know some of that, you creepy, little stalker. But I was. I dunno why, he never did anything to me. Anyway, I should have been there. I shoulda been a better brother.”

Dick shakes his head a little, trying to clear the fog. It’s a losing battle though. “Not sure why I’m telling you all this. Probably shouldn’t, I mean, you’re the kid here, not me. But…I guess what I’m trying to say is that…” He yawns deeply. “I’m gonna try to do a better job. Less of a jerk, I guess. ‘nd Bruce’ll come ‘round. He already is. You need to wake up, but you’ll see. ‘nd I’ll be here then, ‘kay? Jus’…get better quick, ‘kay, little brother?”

He yawns again and blinks slowly, trying to figure out why he said that last bit. But after a moment, he gives up and starts to fall asleep again. Drifting off, it finally comes to him— _he deserves the title as much as he does the Robin uniform. And I’m gonna make sure that happens._ And then he’s asleep, completely dead to the world. He doesn’t stir again, even when Bruce comes to the door and looks in, smiling fondly as both of his boys, the one he chose, and the one that chose him, finally rest peacefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. It's sappy and sweet, because I needed a happy ending after this week. Perhaps it's not the BEST work I've ever done, but it's sweet. And Bruce is finally healing emotionally. Yay! Oh, and if anyone was curious, waahni is the Shoshone word for fox, courtesy of my crazy Great-Aunt Bee.  
> Munchkins are fine, though #3 hurt her head and got baby-sized stitches. But she got ice cream too, so she's fine :)

**Author's Note:**

> Jason's only been dead for a few months, and Bruce (and everyone else) is still mourning. Since Alfred forced him (in his Alfred-like way) to let Tim be Robin, there's some serious resentment there. So Bruce is kind of a jerk right now. But I promise he'll be nicer by the end!


End file.
